


A Little Unsteady

by lionheartedleo



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Family Bonding, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, I was honestly just irritated with how they wrote Ivy so I wanted to expand on her character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 13:37:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11601741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionheartedleo/pseuds/lionheartedleo
Summary: “Oswald,” Ivy interrupts, pausing to reach up and wipe at her eyes, taking in a long sniff, before she continues. “Do you know how old I am?”Oswald has to retain a scoff. She can’t be serious. He allows himself a roll of the eyes, though, before deciding to comply. “T.. Twenty five?” he throws out without a second thought, throwing up a hand in a haphazard shrug before letting it slap back down against his thigh. She ducks her head, and impatience floods him. “Why?”She mutters something, and he has to stop himself from snapping. “What?” he huffs.Ivy looks up at him, and he’s taken back by how red her eyes have become, tears streaming down her cheeks. They lock eyes for a moment, and before Oswald can ask what’s wrong, what'sreallywrong, she mutters, “I’m thirteen.”





	A Little Unsteady

To say the iceberg lounge is coming along splendidly is an understatement. To Oswald, walking into the lounge is like walking into a piece of himself. It serves as a representation of everything he’s achieved, everything he’s overcome. Even without his most prized obstacle, the one thing that brought him crumbling to his knees, the frozen centerpiece, the entirety of the building was a vision to behold, bearing no question of Oswald’s power.

Though he’d love to, he can’t place the credit of its magnificence entirely on his shoulders. Ivy, who he notes is currently engaging in a one-sided conversation by the bar with the newest member of Gotham’s community, Wilbur Kingsley, contributed an abundance of ideas and time to developing the lounge herself. She brought a fresh new perspective to the establishment, one that would attract crowds from the younger community, while complimenting Oswald’s taste for the traditional.

Wilbur Kingsley was a clean-cut, charismatic man who dressed smartly no matter where he went. He approached Oswald, after promising a great deal of lucrative connections, and requested a decent foothold among Gotham’s underworld. Though Oswald typically found that Gotham’s newcomers typically fled once they saw the cities’ conditions, this man seemed to have enough spine that the city left him unfazed, or at least he didn’t show it.

Ivy seems bored out of her mind, barely even looking at the other man, and Oswald feels a sudden pang of guilt. He practically begged her to come along to sample the wine selection with him, but she practically curled her lip at every single one, only settling on a disgustingly sweet one with a taste that Oswald _still_ can’t get out of his mouth. 

When he met with Kingsley, giving him a welcoming tour of the premises, he was asked the same question twice.

“Who is that?” he had asked, with a cautious finger towards the man buried deep in the ice.

“Just a reminder,” Oswald stated matter-of-factly, a proud smile settling on his face.

“Ah… I see. And, uh, who is _that_?”

After realizing his gaze had settled on Ivy, he considered turning him away from his subject of interest, but Ivy seemed to always enjoy toying with the men she met, and, so, he introduced them. It hadn’t been long since they first began talking, an hour, at most, maybe, but he already considers prying poor Ivy from the other man’s grasps, but he’s sure that if she has a problem with him, she’ll handle it herself, or otherwise come to Oswald. He has to have a discussion with him by the end of the night, so she’ll be relieved of his presence regardless.

Oswald takes a sip of his cocktail, taking time to turn from where he’s seated in front of the stage, to take in the lounge once more: the constant flow of people coming and going, light laughter mixed with tipsy discussions, the communal sway to the band playing a rhythmic, jazzy tune on the stage before him. It was practically therapeutic to be here, almost as if the entire place was concocted to appease him, and only him, and other people just happened to enjoy the-

_Slap._

The sound is so resounding, so punctual, that even the music on stage slows to a halt underneath its attention. The focus of the entire lounge snaps to Ivy, who is now backing away slowly from the man she was speaking with, and Kingsley, whose mouth is parted in an offended ‘o’ as he rubs his cheek. No one moves. No one breathes. Not until his pain turns into a snarl, and he reaches over to grab at Ivy’s shoulders and shove her to the floor with a loud _thud._ Ivy yelps, drawing up her arms and legs in front of her in defense as the man raises the back of his hand, shouting “Slut!”, then freezes as an all-too-familiar click echoes behind him. He slowly lowers his hand, turning on his heel to find himself face-to-face with the barrel of Oswald’s pistol.

“I’d recommend you reconsider what you’re about to do,” Oswald’s voice is venomous, finger twitching on the trigger. The club is silent, and Oswald nearly forgets that they have onlookers. “Gentleman,” he calls to his security. “Please escort the rest of our guests from the premises. I must conclude our…” He gives Kingsley, a cold glare. “...business discussion.”

Ivy is silent the whole way home, forehead pressed to the window of the vehicle, her breath slowly clouding up her reflection in the glass.

Oswald has never seen her like this. Ivy, even when doing all she can to manipulate others, almost always has a brimming, stupid-looking smile on her face and a glint in her eyes. It reminds him of a child who knows her grandmother is going to slip a bill into her hands and tell her not to tell her mother. She’s always going on-and-on about this and that: plant facts, or her favorite television show that she literally sat hours on the sofa watching, or the components of a chemical concoction so obnoxiously complex that Oswald goes cross-eyed just trying to follow along. She can be a bit vexing, and extremely foolish, but she’s a constant source of light in a world like Oswald’s, something fresh, and new.

But now? She just seems… broken. And for what? All of this over some sleazy guy? He isn’t of concern anymore, Oswald made sure of that. His goons are currently mopping the aftermath off of the floors of the club. Ivy hadn’t even participated. When he offered her the gun to finish him off, she just shook her head and turned away, leaving him to finish the job himself.

When they got home, Ivy retreats to her bedroom immediately, and as Oswald walks to the bathroom to ready himself for bed, he convinces himself that the noise he hears is the house creaking, not muffled hiccuping slipping from her cracked door.

Days pass and, while he tells himself things are getting back to normal, falling back into place, they really aren’t. Ivy spends most of her time locked away in her room, only coming out for meals, and even then, she scarfs down her food quickly, with very little conversation (dressed rather ridiculously, most times, he might add: her hair a red mess, and she’s practically in her pajamas at all points of the day), and then retreats back to her room. She refuses his invites to the lounge or out on day trips throughout Gotham. Occasionally, he sees her slip into the greenhouse to care for her plants, but he assumes that’s best kept as her ‘alone time’.

It’s one Thursday morning over breakfast, after Ivy once more disappears from the table when Bridget pipes up. She’d been giving him dirty looks for days, whether passing in the halls of the mansion or out to handle some “negotiations”, and he hadn’t bothered to confront her because, hell, she did her job and did it well. But this time, she snaps.

“What the hell did you do?”

Oswald recoils. “What? Me?”

“Yeah, you!” her gaze is piercing, and he suddenly considers getting his clothes infused with fire-retardant threads.

“I- _That_ ,” He points to the steps, as if Ivy is standing there, staring at him with her arms crossed and her cheeks puffed up petulantly, “has nothing to do with me!”

“Then what’s wrong with her?” she demands.

“I. Don’t. Know!”

“Then figure it out!”

“Why don’t you do it?”

“Because she’s been that way since you guys came home from the club that night! You _insisted_ she come with you.”

Oswald huffs, sitting back and leaning against the arm of his chair, chewing anxiously on his fingernails.

Bridget relaxes slightly, but the tension between the two of them doesn’t settle. “You know what happened, don’t you?”

“I think,” he confirms, muffled behind his hand.

“Did you even check up with her after it happened?”

Oswald avoids her gaze, only side-eying her guiltily when she prompts him with a stern “Well?”

She gives him a look, and he throws up his hands. “I thought she needed space,” he says with a whine, his head lolling to the side. Bridget stuffs her last forkful of omelet into her mouth, then quickly gathers her utensils and her mug of (practically boiling) coffee, and storms out of the room quickly. She does that often, he realizes, washing her dishes instead of requesting that Olga do it. He is certain it made her Olga’s new favorite. Oswald tells himself that he isn’t jealous.

He lets out an exasperated sigh, rolling his head to the other side to suddenly spot Fries standing at the doorframe of the dining room, apparently having watched this whole situation unfold. When Oswald looks at him expectantly, he raises his hands in defense with a reluctant hiss from his suit.

“Pass.”

 

* * *

 

  
Oswald paces in the living room, a _clunk_ echoing throughout the room as his cane in the floor, soon followed by the sound of his uneven footsteps. How can he go about talking to her about this? “Ivy, please explain why you’ve locked yourself in your room for a week-” No. “Ivy, why are you acting like you suddenly hate everyone-” No. “Ivy, why won’t you look anyone in the eyes anymore?” He lets out an exasperated growl, shaking his head. He didn’t ask to babysit a full-grown woman or coddle her problems, and it was even _worse_ because he actually _cares_ about them. He is concerned for Ivy, for sure, but what is he supposed to say?

The only woman he had ever needed to console in his entire life was his mother, and typically with her it was simple enough to comfort her with white lies and avoidant conversations. He knows with Ivy it won’t be that easy. She wants sincerity, explanations. No, she _deserves_ it. He rotates when he finds himself facing the wall of living room, pivoting on his cane to pace in the opposite direction only to find himself making eye-contact with Ivy, standing pigeon-footed on the opposite end of the room and clad in a striped green sweater two sizes too big and a pair of sweatpants, her brows knit together.

Oswald fumbles for words, settling on, “Hello.”

“Hi?” Ivy says, perplexed. “Are you okay?”

Oswald stands up straight, tugging on the bottom of his suit-jacket to straighten it properly. “I could ask you the same question.”

Ivy blinks. “I wanted to watch TV.”

She quickly plops down on the sofa, leaning on the arm and looking about until she realizes a little too late that the remote is out of her reach, propped on the arm closest to Oswald. “Can you pass me the remote?”

Oswald doesn't’ move.

“Ozzie?”

“Ivy?”

She huffs, pressing her elbow into the sofa’s arm and plopping her hand against her knuckles. She doesn’t look at him as he steps closer to her, standing in front of the screen, hoping to make a point. “Is this about what happened at the club, Ivy?”

When she doesn’t respond, he adds, “Because, you know that I would never let anything like that happen again. A-and I didn’t know that he’d act so brutishly towards you after I introduced the two of you.” He hears her sniff and panic chills him. What did he do wrong? “That sleazy sycophant is long gone, I promise you that, and let it be said that-”

“Oswald,” she interrupts, pausing to reach up and wipe at her eyes, taking in a long sniff, before she continues. “Do you know how old I am?”

Oswald has to retain a scoff. She can’t be serious. He allows himself a roll of the eyes, though, before deciding to comply. “T.. Twenty five?” he throws out without a second thought, throwing up a hand in a haphazard shrug before letting it slap back down against his thigh. She ducks her head, and impatience floods him. “Why?”

She mutters something, and he has to stop himself from snapping. “What?” he huffs.

Ivy looks up at him, and he’s taken back by how red her eyes have become, tears streaming down her cheeks. They lock eyes for a moment, and before Oswald can ask what’s wrong, what's _really_ wrong, she mutters, “I’m thirteen.”

The laugh escapes Oswald’s lips before he can catch it. Ivy pulls her gaze from his to look back down at the floor, and he slaps himself for being so discourteous. “... You can’t be serious?”

“One of strange’s monsters pretty much sucked the life out of the people he touched. I ended up on the bad side of Fish Mooney and he was supposed to take me out. He grabbed me, but I managed to get away. A bit too late, I guess.”

The mention of Fish Mooney brings an onslaught of emotions over him, twisting his stomach, but he pushes them away. It isn’t time to think about himself. He fiddles with the top of his cane, brows furrowing as he tries to find a way to fill the silence between them, his mind subconsciously trying to picture her as a four-foot-something ripping through Gotham with her hair in pigtails.

It makes sense, when he thinks about it. When they first met, she practically treated him like a baby doll, or the puppy that her parents finally let her bring home. And even after, her inability to comprehend his flowery vernacular, her excessive trust in other people, and her Labrador-like loyalty all just convinced him that she was extremely childish, but he didn’t know it was like _this_.

“What about your parents?”

“Dead. My dad was framed for killing the Waynes, and the GCPD shot him-” Oswald feels his blood run cold, “My mom killed herself after. Guess she didn’t care that he treated us both like garbage.” Her voice cracks on that last word, and, to Oswald’s horror, she suddenly lurches forward, drawing her knees to her chest and _sobs_.

Oswald practically throws his cane down in a panic as he moves to sit beside her on the sofa, only then realizing that he is unsure if it was appropriate to get too close. He sits with his jaw agape for a few moments, searching for words that aren’t coming, distracted by her tears, before scooting an inch or two closer.

How on earth are you supposed to comfort a _child?_

“Uhm…” he says, reaching a stalled hand over to her and letting it stiffly pat her back. “... There, there?”

Even though he’s sure it’s absolutely useless, after a few minutes she is able to pull her face from her knees and give her eyes a good rub, absolutely ruining the green eyeshadow he’s sure she carelessly spread onto her eyes with a sponge applicator earlier that day despite her casual lounge wear.

“If it’s any consolation,” Oswald says, after a few moments of silence. “I always found childhood to be absolutely _dreadful_. Maybe you lucked out?” He knows he sounds unsure; he’s grasping for straws at this point.

She chuckles, but the smile barely reaches her eyes. “I just wasn’t ready, you know?” She picks at her cuticles, shredding them slowly. “I mean, every little girl dreams of growing up to be a beautiful woman, and I like the way I look, don’t get me wrong- but everything that came with it was just so… sudden, y’know?”

Oswald shakes his head slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I like being pretty. It makes me feel nice, I like looking at myself. But…” she pauses, glancing over at Oswald to see if he’s still listening. He is, so she continues, “I don’t really like it when other people look at me. Not ‘look’ at me, but I mean _look_ at me. I mean, I like money, and presents, but then they want… stuff from me.”

“Stuff?” He knows, and he doesn't want to hear it, but he has a feeling that she needs to say it out loud, to get it out.

“Y’know…” She shakes her head, still refusing to look at him. “I ran away from the first guy who brought ‘it’ up. And the second. The third guy tried to take it. Don’t-” she holds up a hand when Oswald bristled with rage and his mouth dropped open, “-worry about it. He’s dead, along with that guy feeling me up back in the lounge.” He closes his mouth, but he remains tense, nails digging into the couch. “And there’s the other shit I had to worry about. You know my... “ she huffs, closing her eyes and shaking her head before continuing, “I finally got my p-period, but it’s all messed up for some reason, probably because of how fast it all happened. And some days I’m super happy, and some days I just wish I’d drowned.

“And I just…” She shakes her head, looking down and picking at a loose string on the sleeve of her sweater. “I never had a chance to really be a kid, or a teen, or anything, in the first place. Living on the street takes away most of that kind of stuff. But, like, I don’t get to be playful without looking like an idiot. I don’t get to do stuff I like without having to pay for it or having someone else pay for it, and then they expect something in return. I don’t get to have amusement parks, or stupid, sugary cereal, or frilly dresses, or hopscotch, or schoolyard brawls, or a stupid, fickle on-and-off like Selina and Bruce do.”

Her face grows hot, her eyebrows knitting together once more. “It’s not fair. It’s _not fair_. I already got so much taken away from me living on the street, and then suddenly I’ve got _tits_ and I have to _act my age?_ ” She glares at Oswald, scowling, and he has to tell himself that it’s not directed at him, or maybe it is, but that wasn’t the point. He withdraws his hand, anyway. “Well I’m _trying_ to act _my_ age but all people can see me as is a fucking sex… _thing_! I’m tired of it! I’m tired of it, tired of it, tired of it!” She slams her fists down on the sofa each time, her bare heels kicking against the hardwood, and then the tears are back again, and her breath is coming in as quick, high-pitched wheezes, and she grabs the pillow next to her and shoves it over her face, the sounds muffled behind the fabric, and Oswald thinks he hears “I want my mom,” amongst the sobbing but it hurts less to reassure himself that he didn’t.

Oswald runs his hand down his face, allowing it to settle on his mouth, pulling his skin taught as his hand lies heavy over his lips, eyes darting about the room as if the portraits of his relatives would somehow reach out to him and hand him a book titled “Teenagers for Dummies.”

“Ivy?” he murmurs, reaching over to rub her back gently, small circles that he always oddly found comforting as a kid.

She turns to look at him, and suddenly he can see her. The real her. What would have been a stout, round, freckled face partnered with ruddy cheeks and a pair of sad, tired eyes. Wild, unkempt red hair. A little girl, scraped knees, lying on the street, covered in dirt, crying for her mother, ducking into corners, under boxes, and he starts to wonder if he may have seen her while on a casual stroll throughout Gotham.

“I’m sorry,” he spills out hopelessly, face twisted in concern as he shakes his head, allowing his hand to settle on her shoulder. “I’m sorry that this happened to you, and that I have no means of fixing it at the moment. And I’m sorry that I was… such a jerk to you when we first met-” She giggles, looking down, “- and quite a bit afterwards too. But I want you to know that you are my dearest friend, and if there is anything you need me to do for you, I’ll do it without a second thought. We, we can look for a way to reverse this, or if you want me to kill anyone who makes you uncomfortable, or- I’m serious!” She’s giggling again, shaking her head and he can’t help but let a foolish smile slip over his own face, dropping his hand from her shoulder. “You know, I’m trying to be sincere and you’re not helping.”

“Sorry, sorry,” she sniffs, wiping a line of snot onto her sleeve (Oswald curls his lip when she isn’t looking.) and smiling again. “You’re just real nice. In a weird… gangster way.”

He grins, shaking his head before propping his arm onto the back of the sofa and hoisting himself upwards. Ivy perks up with an “Oh!” before half-crawling, with her lower body still settled on the sofa, to snatch up Oswald’s cane and hold it out to him. He gratefully accepts it, an old memory slipping through his head as he sets the end against the floor with a gentle _thunk_ against the hardwood.

“What would you say,” he begins, his gaze lifted upwards slightly as he thinks, “if I were to let Olga take off for the night, and we make dinner ourselves?”

Ivy tilts her head.

“I was thinking breakfast for dinner,” he explains. “My mother and I used to make it together, and despite the mess we made,” _-or perhaps, because of the mess, he thinks to himself-_ “we always had a lot of fun doing it.” He shrugs, feeling rather foolish now, realizing it’s probably a pathetic means of cheering her up. “I… Thought you might want to give it a go?”

Ivy’s eyes light up, and she grins. “Can we do chocolate chip? Do we have whipped cream and caramel?”

Oswald curls his lip, raising his eyebrow. “If we must, we can have it arranged. I swear, I’ll never, ever understand a child’s taste buds.”

He watches her face soften, her smile growing slightly. She stands, stepping into Oswald’s space and wrapping her arms tightly around him, crouching down to stuff her head into his shoulder. “Thanks, Pengy,” she mumbles, muffled into his suit jacket.

Making dinner is disastrous at best. Clumsy hands and elbows knock over almost every supply they had, they constantly forget where they left off in the directions, or skip a few steps by accident, and Ivy is absolutely _terrible_ at flipping pancakes. Nonetheless, they end up, deciding not to drag the flour that covers them both (and one of his favorite suits) around the house, eating in the kitchen. Pancakes, eggs, and bacon really shouldn’t have been as difficult as it was, but in the end it proved satisfactory. He watches Ivy in distaste as she sludges her pancake with caramel, and then sprays the can of whipped cream directly into her mouth.

This may not have been exactly what she was looking for, but it was something, wasn’t it? She seems content, sitting on the countertop with her legs crossed and reaching for her fresh cup of chocolate milk, taking a long sip.

He can’t say that he misses his childhood in the slightest, the overwhelming swarm of bullies, the isolation, trying to fake sick as much as he could, even going so far as to try and injure himself to get out of class. But, of course, there were some things he wouldn’t change for the world. His mother, for one, was loving, and kind, and just thinking about her made his heart yearn for a time before. He misses the man who owned the candy shop down the road from where he lived, who would slide an extra candy bar into his hand after taking his change with a warm wink. More so, there are times where he misses the passiveness of life, the times where he didn’t have to worry about things like taxes, business negotiations, assassins, and all of those other things that came with being one of the strongest people in Gotham. His childhood was a bitter experience, sure, but at least he had it. It made him what he is today.

Ivy doesn’t really have the chance to say the same. She spent her childhood simply making sure she could survive, and those days that she didn’t were only the days in which her childhood was taken from her by force. And, hell, here she was, covered in flour, stuffing her cheeks full of pancakes and whatever excess snacks she managed to fit in there, and all that he can feel is the overwhelming need to protect her, just as he had his mother. He glances down at his pancake, eyeing the now mauled arrangement of chocolate chips into a brimming smiley face just as he hears another female voice speak up-

“What the hell happened in here?” Bridget’s attempts to maneuver around the flour scattering the floor prove futile when she finally makes it to the island in the center of the kitchen, where the stack of pancakes sit, the bottom of her boots covered in the white substance. “Pancakes?” She gives Oswald a curious, yet suspicious look, and when he responds with a passive shrug, she glances at Ivy, almost in surprise. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I think you would’ve rather been left out,” Ivy explains. “It was a struggle. Hey, where’s Fries?” She sits up straight, lowering her fork from her mouth so she can yell, rather suddenly, thus making Oswald stick a finger in his ear to stop the ringing, “FRIES!”

Soon, they’re all gathered about the kitchen, all different levels of messy, passing forks and plates and syrups and toppings until eventually a light, drifting banter fills the room. Laughter echoes around the Van Dahl estate when Bridget flicks flour from her fingers into Fries’ face, causing him to lurch back, or when Ivy falls off the counter top when attempting to get down and ends up making a snow angel in the flour on the floor, and even more when she stands up and her entire back side is white.

And suddenly, in the back of his head, as he’s half laughing, half holding his stomach from the cramps that are ringing through it, he recalls a memory from so long ago that suddenly strikes him and puts a big, stupid grin on his face: an amalgamate of Ivy’s voice and a much younger, unfamiliar girl, chirping, “It’s like we’re a family.”


End file.
